Lucy K Shaw & Bessie Smith

Fuck, I love jazz. I think all my writing has been an attempt at doing something worthy of it. Something like what Cortázar does in Hopscotch. That’s one of those books that was so eerie to read because it was doing exactly what I had been thinking of doing. I mean, he even writes that he’s attempting to “capture jazz in prose.” And somehow it is inspiring that I’ve hit upon the same feeling and intimidating that it has already been done and hopeful that I might have a better way of doing it. But why haven’t I done it already. I read that book in April 2013. There is an entry in one of my notebooks from January 2012 about Blue in Green. Everything I write is about Blue in Green. Evans interrupted by Miles, 19 seconds in. This was only supposed to be one sentence. There is a recording of Ella Fitzgerald that I think is the most beautiful thing in the world. I’m so depressed right now. She scats, it don’t mean a thing. There’s a miscue in it where she either starts too early or the band does but she’s still divine and I love her. There is a recording of Armstrong where he gives us our voice for the 20th century. You can hear it in these two voices. I listen to jazz because I’m miserable. The muted trumpets in The Mooche. Listen to how they waver. On Black and Tan Fantasy. You can picture the heat, right? And what about Creole Love Call? And have you heard Armstrong and Ellington together? It’s great, but maybe a little too good of a recording, too clear. I love watching Louis in the beginning of Dinah holding his trumpet at his knees and waving it almost like a conductor, the f’n showmanship on that guy. His lip once fell off. Maybe, I don’t know. It may just be a metaphor. It may have just split open. I can’t bleed for my art. I’m too scared. I met someone recently who seems to be doing just that. The strength she has amazes me. I don’t think I can do that. Leaving this as a block of text because I know no one reads those.